Sparring
by Magery
Summary: It wasn't until months later that Miranda realised it was the first time she'd ever done something for the man under the mask.


She found him in the cargo bay. It was past midnight, a term which actually meant something since they were currently refuelling on a planet, and there he was, slamming kick after kick into a punching bag (was it really a punching bag, then?). She'd asked EDI to inform her whenever Shepard left his quarters—she didn't really trust him any more than he trusted her, and they both knew it—and when the AI had informed her, she'd been in the middle of finalising the mission report. It had been their first encounter with the Collectors, and between the stasis pods and Harbinger and Ashley Williams, she'd had a lot to write about.

Normally, she wouldn't have bothered actually seeking him out, content simply to observe through the surveillance devices scattered through the ship—or, at least the ones that he or Mordin Solus had deigned to leave behind—and she didn't even quite know why she'd suddenly decided to. She rationalized it by telling herself that the chance to observe and talk to Commander Shepard without his façade of cool indifference—because he was obviously angry, and she didn't have to think too hard to understand why—was too great to pass up and besides, this offered the perfect chance to spar without anyone else watching. If it helped him to beat out some of his anger on a living target, well, it _was_ her job to make sure he made it to the Omega-4 relay intact.

She hated training when other people could see her – she was supposed to be perfection, and perfection didn't need to practice. From what she'd seen of Shepard, he wasn't the sort of person to go around bragging even if he did kick her ass, and between that and the solitude, it was perfect. All of the above led her down to the improvised sparring ring, the bag that had literally had the stuffing beaten out of it, and the man who'd once been humanity's favourite son.

He turned towards her, lashing out with a brutal roundhouse kick that finished the bag once and for all, splitting it completely down the seams even as he sent it flying across the room trailing what was left of the chain that had previous attached it to its mount. His eyes were slightly wild, and even though his breathing was perfectly even, his face perfectly still and his body completely relaxed, she could tell that, for the first time, she was dealing with Shepard the man, not Commander Shepard, Council Special Tactics and Reconnaissance.

"Lawson. Remind me to hack your override codes so I actually _am_ the final authority on this ship where EDI is concerned."

His tone was faintly bored, but it was the first statement she'd got out of him that actually had even a hint of emotion in it, so rather than deigning to respond she simply smiled and asked a question.

"Want to spar?"

He laughed, although whether it was to acknowledge the meaning behind the smile or the seemingly innocuous question, she wasn't sure. It was probably both. He turned and walked onto the soft mats Garrus Vakarian had laid down almost the moment he'd boarded the Normandy SR2, tossing his answer over his shoulder.

"Why not? I'm assuming basic rules: no biotics, no permanent injury or crippling, no bragging about who won afterwards."

She half-frowned, half-smiled at the last condition despite herself; even when angry, it seemed Shepard knew and saw a lot more than he let on. So she decided to acknowledge the victory in her usual way – by ignoring it.

"No biotics? Afraid you'll get hurt?" She didn't quite know why she asked that question; the Ice Queen certainly wouldn't. She blamed it on sleep deprivation, even though she'd been operating on four hours a night ever since they'd first recovered Shepard's body.

He didn't smile in response, didn't offer visual cues that would betray any reaction other than cool dismissal, but somehow she could tell he was amused. It would take her a very long time to understand why she could read him like that; mostly because when you've been moulded consciously and unconsciously to be perfect since the day you were born, it's very hard to comprehend anyone else who's just like you.

"The only way to negate an opponent's biotics—apart from possessing your own—is to inflict some form of damage that prevents their brain from communicating with the rest of their body. Knocking you out defeats the purpose of sparring and it serves me no practical purpose to kill you."

Seeing no possible (dignified) rejoinder, she followed him to the mat and took her place opposite, settling into a loosely relaxed ready stance. They circled one another slowly, and as he moved, she found herself admiring his grace despite herself. Then he lashed out, and she didn't really have any time to feel anything, let alone admiration. Her body reacted before her thoughts caught up—which, in this instance, was actually a good thing—and she slapped his first three strikes aside.

They didn't come from any fighting style she recognized, and more to the point, they didn't seem to actually achieve any purpose. The latter had her worried, because she knew enough about Shepard to know he _always_ had a plan. It took her a few more blocks to realise what that plan was. He was testing her reaction speed; the sort of thing she should have been doing had she not let herself become slightly distracted with how graceful he was. Beneath her calm mask, she found herself growing slightly annoyed.

Before she could translate that annoyance into anything more, he began to attack in earnest. Each blow was faster than the last, his pace accelerating until finally one slipped through her metaphorical grasp. His palm hit her shoulder, staggering her slightly, but she converted her momentum into a spinning kick as her foot whistled through the air. He ducked under it and lashed out with a brutal sweeping kick, swiping her legs out from under her. As she fell, she lunged out behind her – the moment her hands hit the ground, she launched herself forward, both feet smashing into his gut.

Or, at least, that had been her intention as his left forearm smashed painfully into both her shins diverting her double-footed kick between his legs. The next thing she knew, his right arm was lunging forward and his fingers were wrapping around her throat. The fight froze, and she looked up at him with disbelief and what she'd strenuously deny as being a little fear. He released her, and she dropped to the floor, mind whirring.

She knew that, with all the upgrades Cerberus had given him, he was physically superior to how he must have been before the reconstruction, but once he'd decided to fight he'd shut her down in all of fifteen seconds. In the years since she'd joined Cerberus, she'd sparred with some of humanity's most capable and dangerous close-combat specialists, and even Kai Leng hadn't been that brutally efficient. But that wasn't even what frightened her; it was the realisation that, as she looked into his eyes, he hadn't truly been trying. He'd beaten her down, faster than even Cerberus' most talented assassin, and he _still had gears left_.

It wouldn't be until much later that he told her that she'd interpreted him incorrectly. The reason his eyes were so blank was because—for a single, guilty second—he'd been imagining she was Ashley.

Shepard must have seen some of that fear in her eyes, because the hand that had previously wrapped itself around her throat turned into a hand offering to pull her up, a hand she declined as she used her biotics to lift herself back up off the ground. She wasn't entirely sure, but as her body glowed with power she thought she saw him tense slightly before relaxing as he took a few steps back. Having regained her feet, she turned to him and started to speak.

"On second thoughts, perhaps asking to spar with you wasn't a particularly good idea."

He must have detected the slight, almost subconscious emphasis on the word 'you', because he bowed his head slightly, almost as if in apology. Almost as if he'd understood exactly what she was thinking. From what she'd seen of Shepard, she wouldn't have been surprised. As she turned to go, his voice stopped her.

"Lawson."

She looked back at him, mouth framing the 'Yes, Commander?' when he spoke before her.

"Thanks."

This time, he was the one who turned away, walking over to where the supply of spare bags. She stood in silence for a few moments, wondering what he was thanking her for. It wasn't until he'd set up the bag and started kicking it again that she understood why. This time, he was clinical, efficient, but not brutal. The anger was gone. Somehow, that single fight had relieved it all.

It took the length of the walk from the cargo bay back to her office for her to realise that, for all her intentions of prying past his façade and practicing her sparring, the only thing she'd achieved was helping him – and not even as a soldier. As a person. And it wasn't until months later that Miranda realised it was the first time she'd ever done something for the man under the mask.

* * *

When Shepard explained that she'd interpreted the look in his eyes incorrectly, she'd looked at him and laughed slightly.

"Hey, nobody's perfect."

He'd laughed along with her, and a few moments later she'd challenged him to another sparring match. He'd looked her in the eye, half-serious, half-playful, and asked if she "really wanted to go there again". She'd nodded, and they'd proceeded to the cargo bay. Happily for the two of them, it was the dead of night—once again, they were refuelling on a planet, albeit not the same one—because what happened next was embarrassing for the both of them.

After promptly kicking her ass six ways to Sunday, he'd told her that "I said your interpretation was wrong. I never said your _conclusion_ was wrong." She'd then proceeded to toss him into a wall with an impressive display of biotic power.

They'd both been bruised in the morning, and the crew had developed the totally wrong impression.

Garrus and Joker hadn't stopped ribbing them for _weeks_.


End file.
